


Bone Music

by Empress_of_the_Void



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: 1950s, Bucky's POV, Comics Inspired, Dancing, F/M, Minor Angst, One Shot, bing crosby - Freeform, bucky pining, buckynat - Freeform, first kiss (sort of), in the USSR during the 50s and 60s, inspired by bootleg records made on x-rays, more about it in the end notes, seriously that was a real thing, spies to lovers, the violence is only graphic for a short paragraph, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-31 23:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12692541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empress_of_the_Void/pseuds/Empress_of_the_Void
Summary: East Berlin, Fall 1955.I shut my eyes to better focus on the music.Low notes carry through the thin walls. Horns, harmony, and a familiar, deep male voice. I can barely pick up the melody.“Are you…singing?”My eyes fling open and she’s staring up at me, her head cocked to one side, brow furrowed.How long has she been standing there? Damn, she’s always so quiet on her toes. Must be the dancer in her.****************Two of Russia’s top spies are sent to track a smuggler when a strange song on a record made of bone triggers the Winter Soldier's memory.





	Bone Music

**East Berlin, Fall 1955**

 

I shut my eyes to better focus on the music.

 

Low notes carry through the thin walls. Horns, harmony, and a familiar, deep male voice. I can barely pick up the melody.

 

“Are you… _singing_?”

 

My eyes fling open and she’s staring up at me, her head cocked to one side, brow furrowed. _How long has she been standing there?_ Damn, she’s always so quiet on her toes. Must be the dancer in her.

 

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye out,” she says after I don’t respond.

 

“Are we ready?” I snap back to reality. Back to the mission.

 

She eyes me up and down then turns on her heel, leading us a few steps down the hall to the apartment door.

 

Her fist taps on the door. The music stops abruptly.

 

I can hear shuffling from inside the apartment. With my back to the wall beside the door, I slip my glove off my left hand, flexing the metal fingers.

 

“Who is it?” A man’s voice pipes up from behind the door.

 

“It’s Nina. Petrov told me about you. He said you might be able to help me.” She adds a faux shake to her voice. She’s good. I’d be convinced.

 

After a pause, he replies, “Petrov didn’t mention a woman.”

 

“Please, I’ve walked a long way. I’m not even supposed to be in this part of the city.”

 

The click of a lock, the sliding of a chain. He’s unlocking the door. _Or bolting it_. She meets my eyes. I nod.

 

She gives one last attempt, “Bruno, please. Bruno?”

 

More shuffling inside. She takes a step back, giving me space.

 

I turn to the door, reel back my metal arm then punch through the wood. I reach to the side and yank off the knob. The door doesn’t budge so I swipe my fingers up, peeling off deadbolts and plaster in one chunk.

 

The door swings open and Bruno is one leg out the window.

 

I step aside. _That’s not why I’m here_. I let my partner handle him.

 

* * *

 

When Bruno wakes up a short time later he finds himself tied to a wooden chair at his dining table. A redheaded young woman sits across from him while a surly looking man with a metal hand leans against the far wall.

 

He coughs out, “Red bastards.”

 

“Come now, Bruno. That’s no way to greet comrades,” she soothes.

 

I hide my smile by looking down. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about her in the week I’ve known her it’s that she’s most dangerous when she’s acting sweet. This poor schmuck doesn’t know what he’s in for.

 

“We just want your help, dear Bruno.”

 

“Sure you do, then why tie me up?” He tugs against the restraints.

 

I glance around the room. A tiny tenement with an antique cast iron stove, some ratty furniture and stacks upon stacks of, what are those? _Records_?

 

“Why were you so eager to leave?” she presses him.

 

I wander over to a shelf near the window. One of those portable record players fitted into a suitcase is propped up on the surface, open. But rather than vinyl, it’s —

 

“Bone,” I whisper under my breath.

 

Behind me, the poor man is stuttering an excuse about how “he doesn’t know nuffin’” or some drivel. Doesn’t matter. They all say the same thing.

 

I take a closer look at the “record.” A circle cut with jagged edges. Rings in the center like a normal disc but printed on an image of a human arm. I recognize it as a medical x-ray. Someone’s bone. A left shoulder (or I suppose it could be a right if you flipped the transparent sheet over).

 

I don’t know if it’s curiosity or instinct or what but my hand moves unconsciously to the needle and places it along a ridge.

 

Bruno shuts up as soon as the sound fills the room. My back is to them but I can feel her eyes burning into me. If she asked me what I was doing at this exact moment I couldn’t answer her.

 

But right now I don’t care. The song starts again. Louder now but filtered through a layer of “hiss.” I hear that familiar voice. _Where do I know it?_

 

“What is this?” I ask aloud.

 

“It’s — It’s a record?” he says, half statement, half question.

 

“The _song_ , what is it? Who sings it?” I ask louder, turning to face him. I ignore her gaze. She can scold me later. I have to know. Now.

 

His eyes scoot from me to her and back. Then he spits out a jumble of words: “I don’t know man. I just get stacks of ‘em. These here are the older ones. They don’t sell as fast as the new stuff. Most of ‘em don’t got labels. But I — I heard the voice before. Some guy named Ding or Bing, I dunno.”

 

“It's American,” she says with a note of accusation.

 

“It’s just a side gig. It’s no big thing.” Bruno tries to act dismissive about it but with this many bootleg records it’s more than just a “gig.” She can use this against him.

 

“Something like this could get you into a lot of trouble, Bruno. I would hate for someone to find out.”

 

Bruno bites his lip, then looks to her. “What do you want?”

 

“A meeting.”

 

* * *

 

Later, at our safe house in an apartment block about a kilometer away, I sit at the table, cleaning a sniper rifle, carefully taking each piece out of its suitcase and examining it.

 

“You won’t be needing that,” she says while rolling up her stockings.

 

She’s right. But I need a distraction from the pale skin of her legs and the curve of her hips.

 

Natalia is in her underwear, changing her outfit in preparation to meet the Smuggler, Bruno’s boss and trafficker of both benign luxuries like bone music — _and people_.

 

I steal a glance as she slips a drab gray frock on over her head. Even dressed like a peasant she’s beautiful. No bland color could dull the blood-red of her hair.

 

She adjusts the dress and notices me watching. I quickly return to my task.

 

“I think it best if I go alone tonight,” she mentions, nonchalant.

 

I almost drop the barrel. “That’s not the plan?”

 

She pivots, “What was that business earlier? With the music? What’s gotten into you?”

 

I can’t explain myself. I simply felt compelled, like an itch that must be scratched, to uncover the mystery of the familiar voice. That _song_. But she won’t understand that. _I_ don’t understand that. So I say nothing.

 

“Fine. Be aloof about it. But I’m not letting you compromise the mission.”

 

I frown at her declaration. Technically I am her superior officer. She has no authority to tell me to do anything. But she’s right. Again. Something happened to me back at Bruno’s apartment. And although I’d never admit it aloud, I’m afraid of what it might mean.

 

I pack up the weapon and slam the case closed. I get up from the table and open the door.

 

“I thought — ?“

 

I interrupt her, “I’ll use the scope.” Not the gun itself. _That’s not why I’m here._ “I’ll be on the roof.”

 

I turn to exit.

 

“You spoke in English,” she says. I pause, look back at her. “Bruno and I were speaking German but when you talked, you spoke in English.”

 

I think about this for a second, then shut the door behind me.

 

* * *

 

The streetlights from the boulevard don’t reach this far into the alley. Steam rising from the sewer lines obscures my view. But I can still make out her figure through the scope of the rifle.

 

She’s below me, waiting behind a boarded-up factory warehouse while I’m four stories up on the roof. She wears a shawl wrapped over her head and shoulders, covering most of her hair.

 

Although she doesn’t look up, she knows I’m here, keeping an eye on her.

 

A man waltzes up behind her. She feigns surprise.

 

He’s what you’d expect for a Smuggler. Nice coat, overweight, smoking a cigarette. He tries to ease the young woman, putting a firm hand on her shoulder.

 

I’m too far away to hear them speak but I know the plan, know how this is supposed to go. She’s just another girl, desperate and hoping for a new life. She’ll plead with him. Tell him some story about a cousin in Hamburg. She’ll ask his price, maybe offer something more than cash.

 

Anything to get him to take her to a secondary location. A lead on the next clue up the chain to the _Source_ of all this trouble. The whole reason we’ve been assigned to East Berlin. The end goal. The man at the top.

 

The two begin to walk behind the building to my left, him guiding her by the shoulder. That’s my cue. I hop up and carry the rifle with me along the ledge of the building. Got to keep them in sight.

 

I pick up the pace as they slip around a corner. That’s when I hear the gunshot.

 

I snap the scope back to my eye when I reach the far end of the roof ledge.

 

Below, she’s elbowing the Smuggler in the face, then using him as a shield against her assailant - the other man several meters down the alleyway pointing a handgun at her.

 

I aim, return fire, hitting him in the shoulder. I don’t want to kill him. Not yet. He could still be useful.

 

The man drops the gun then runs back toward the street, clutching his shoulder.

 

She turns up to look at me. The Smuggler bolts in the opposite direction.

 

I point to the accomplice. She nods and races after him.

 

The Smuggler is mine.

 

* * *

 

My boots crush old tile as I bound across rooftop after rooftop in pursuit.

 

If I take the time to climb down I’ll lose him. He’s a shifty one, despite his size, zig-zagging behind outbuildings, hiding under awnings.

 

He veers around a corner out of sight.

 

I hop to a lower roof and crouch, setting the rifle down next to me. I spot the Smuggler kneeling behind some trash cans, staring back down the alley. He thinks he’s in the clear.

 

He’s wrong.

 

I leap from the ledge, my feet hitting his chest, knocking him back into the garbage. I roll off, landing on the cobblestones.

 

The impact crushes his ribs, likely his lungs. His vision is probably blurry from a concussion but I can tell he recognizes me.

 

As I hover over his face he mimes the word “ _Soldier_.”

 

The last thing he sees is my metal hand reaching down, smothering his face, stifling his screams. My fingers dig into his eye sockets. My hand crushes his skull.

 

_This is why I’m here_. Not just to kill but to send a message. To strike fear. To eliminate all the links up the chain to the Source in such a way as to say “only the Winter Soldier could have done this.” That the KGB sent their best operative to hunt them down, one by one. There is no escape.

 

When it’s done I wipe my bloody hand on the hem of the dead man’s coat.

 

I sand up, catching my breath. I feel numb. Tired. For some reason, I think about that song, that voice. Then I remember - “Natasha.”

 

* * *

 

I sit at the table in the darkened apartment, fiddling with a glass now empty. I drank all the vodka. Not that it does anything for me, physically. But it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

 

I’d searched for her for an hour or more. All I found was her shawl in a puddle. The only thing to do was return to the safe house and wait.

 

There are now three possible scenarios. 1) She shows up eventually. 2) Someone else shows up instead - I’ll be ready for them. 3) No one shows up and in three days I report back to Moscow.

 

I really, really want her to come back.

 

I toss the glass in my right hand like a ball then hurtle it across the room. It smashes against a shelf. I put my head in my hand and sigh.

 

* * *

 

I must have fallen asleep. That was stupid. I hear a key in the lock and I’m on my feet. I pull a dagger from my hip holster and brace myself beside the door.

 

It creaks when it opens slightly and my arm swings out, stopping short.

 

“Easy now, Soldier.” My muscles go limp at the sound of her voice.

 

I toss the knife and wrap my arms around her, dragging her into the room. I bury my face in her hair on instinct. I realize this may be the first time I’ve ever touched her. She smells like sweat and smoke and talcum powder.

 

She clears her throat and I collect myself, releasing her.

 

She cocks her head again, eyes turned up at me, confused. Then she grins.

 

Suddenly I feel embarrassed. Like a little boy. Funny, I don’t remember being a little boy.

 

She walks around me to the table. “Our old pal, Bruno, ratted us out. I knew it as soon as I met the Smuggler. So after that mess was done I paid Bruno a visit.”

 

That means he’s dead.

 

She continues, “I should have stuck to the plan. I hope you’ll forgive me. But to make up for it, I brought you a gift.”

 

A _gift_? Funny, I don’t remember ever getting gifts, either.

 

She places a suitcase on the table. I recognize it as Bruno’s portable record player.

 

She opens the lid, sets it up. I wait, eager, not fully knowing why.

 

“Apparently these things are only good for about ten plays.” She slips the x-ray disc onto the center pin then steps aside, allowing me the honor. “Better make them count.”

 

I place the needle and staticky treble and bass fill my ears.

 

I close my eyes, tip my head back. The tune is upbeat, like nothing I’ve heard in Russia. I realize now this Bing guy is singing in English.

 

The sound of her chuckling brings me back. She’s got her arms crossed, weight on one hip. “I haven’t seen you smile like this in months. Or ever, for that matter.”

 

She’s right. Like usual. I _am_ smiling. Can’t help it.

 

Feeling bold, I pluck her right hand in my left and wrap my other arm behind her waist. She’s caught off guard at first then slips her free arm over my shoulder, easing into dancing. These aren’t her usual moves but she catches on. I don’t know where I learned to dance like this.

 

My fingers interweave with hers and I pull her closer to guide her with the music.

 

When the song ends she doesn’t pull away so I don’t stop. My feet slow and I swear I can feel her heart beat next to mine. She turns her head and lays it on my chest.

 

“I’m glad you came back,” I whisper in her ear.

 

She doesn’t say anything in return and I feel her body stiffen. I pull away slightly.

 

Her eyes are wet. She won’t look at me.

 

I consider my question carefully, “Natasha, on how many missions have we been assigned together?”

 

“Three.”

 

I’m not surprised. I know what they do to me. I remember the chair. The white-hot heat. My brain burning. But that’s it. Nothing before, except what they want me to retain. It’s like the pain eats up the rest of me.

 

My right hand reaches up her back and into her hair, turning her face to me.

 

I lean in and taste her lips. Hers soften onto mine. My eyes close and I can feel her tongue trace my mouth as she tilts her head. My thumb brushes her cheek. She pushes against me with more force than I expect. I take a step back, pull her in tight. Eventually, she lowers herself back down on her heels.

 

Once I recover, I ask, “And how many times have we done that?”

 

“Twice.”

 

My hand falls back to her waist and my feet start to move on their own.

 

I let that word sink in. _How many missions until we find the Source? How many times will I forget her? How many times will I fall for her again? How many times will she have to see me, knowing I don’t remember her?_

 

But I don’t want to think about any of that right now. So we keep dancing.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a headcannon I had about Winter Soldier-era Bucky remembering American music after hearing it on a bootleg bone record.
> 
> Bone music was a real thing during the mid-century in the USSR when Western music was banned. You can read more about it here:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ribs_(recordings)  
> https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2017/10/16/the-revival-of-making-albums-made-from-x-rays-a-practice-of-soviet-dissidents/  
> https://www.npr.org/2016/01/09/462289635/bones-and-grooves-weird-secret-history-of-soviet-x-ray-music
> 
> Bing Crosby topped the charts throughout the 40s and into the 50s. Bucky certainly would have heard some of his hits before he became the Soldier and Bing's distinctive baritone is hard to forget.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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